


The Carnivore and the Clementine

by CharacterAbsquatulation



Series: The Genders of Gallifrey [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alpha!Nine, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene, Multi, Omega Verse, Other, POV First Person, Sexual Frustration, Unresolved Sexual Tension, omega!Rose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharacterAbsquatulation/pseuds/CharacterAbsquatulation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the vastness of the universe, there are all sorts. A billion planets with a million ways of classifying people, sorting ‘em into boxes and binaries. A thousand worlds or more have labeled themselves as those who rule and those who serve-- not by economy or governance or favorite ice cream, but by inborn temperament. Of them, perhaps a hundred resemble the genders of Gallifrey enough that I can parse out who’s who. Lucky for me, relatively few of those give off pheromones that I can detect, leaving me free to roam the expanses of time and space without the possessive bullshit of my heritage… most of the time."</p>
<p>Gallifrey has alphas and omegas. Nine is an alpha, and Rose smells inexplicably omega... This is their (canon compliant) story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the possessive bullshit of my heritage

**Author's Note:**

> I never gave up on Nine/Rose. I was still mourning him all through Ten, but it was okay because he was with Rose, and then he was grieving for Rose… and then River Fucking Song showed up, and I was supposed to just let him fall for someone else? He wasn’t ready, I said (because I wasn’t ready). She’s amazing, the library episode is amazing, but... I’m POLY for chrissakes, and I couldn’t open Rose and Nine up enough to make room for River, nevermind that Nine was long gone, and then in comes Eleven?! Damn this show, I don’t want to care but I do…
> 
> So I’m sitting there, contemplating Nine/Rose smut, and then omegaverse, and then it finally all clicked. This is how I grieve for them all.

In the vastness of the universe, there are all sorts. A billion planets with a million ways of classifying people, sorting ‘em into boxes and binaries. A thousand worlds or more have labeled themselves as those who rule and those who serve-- not by economy or governance or favorite ice cream, but by inborn temperament. Of them, perhaps a hundred resemble the genders of Gallifrey enough that I can parse out who’s who. Lucky for me, relatively few of those give off pheromones that I can detect, leaving me free to roam the expanses of time and space without the possessive bullshit of my heritage… most of the time.

Not now, of course. Never the moment when I could use a break, when I’m still reeling from the loss, when I can still smell charred Gallifrey with every breath. I woke up this morning remembering children wailing in my ears, and that makes today the perfect day.

So here I am, on my pet planet in my favorite of its centuries, which is supposed to cheer me up. I’m strolling about-- well, stalking really. This body is everything I hate about myself, everything I hate about what I did. It’s all rage and power, adrenaline and muscles for the chase. I have carnivorous hands. They’re holding the sonic screwdriver when it detects-- animated plastic. Yes, right, jolly good. Why not another alien invasion today? Surely ending the Last of the Time Wars wasn’t enough of a fucking accomplishment.

And so here I am, stroll-stalking through the basement of a godforsaken shopping plaza on Earth. I’m chasing after animate plastics, hating myself with a smile, only to catch a whiff of something… sweet, afraid. I pop open the door without thinking (who am I this time? a bloody fool, clearly).

She looks human, this slip of a pink and yellow girl. I can’t hardly see her past the pheromones clogging my nose: _help-golden-terror-rutting-sunshine-now-danger!_ A hoard of mannequins are about to overtake her, their limbs clapping at us-- how quaint. I offer my hand: “Run!”

She obeys.

She’s human, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter how she smells (how can she even smell like an omega?), because she’s not actually like me-- there’s no one left like me.

I want to bury my nose in her hair and breathe deep, take in the smell of citrus and lust and fear. I want to nibble on her cervical vertebrae. I want to push her onto her knees, I want to split her wide open… Instead, I tell her to run for her life (from me). I have a planet to save, and I don’t deserve company.

An imploded shopping centre later, our paths cross again, and this time she doesn’t listen when I tell her to scram. I need her to listen, because I can’t just get myself killed if I wind up with another damned companion… and it might just tear out one of my hearts to leave this smell behind. I have to warn her at least, try to make her understand that I’m too much for a silly human child. “I can feel it, the turn of the Earth… That’s who I am,” and she still doesn’t fucking leave.

In the end, we sort it all out, of course (the plasticine apocalypse), and when I’m too busy (careless, depressed) saving the world to look after my own hide, Rose Tyler saves me… Why won’t she leave?

Now I’m standing in a dingy alley, drinking in this beautiful golden girl, her sniveling lad wrapped around her knees. I see her stature, the pop of her hip and the glint in her eye. I should leave without another word, because I am the destroyer of worlds and she is nineteen years old. I should go right now, because there’s no way I’ll be able to control myself around the smell of clementines for much longer. I have to turn around, because looking at her makes me forget what a fool I am…

“Did I mention it also travels through time?”


	2. not safe

I can’t smell a thing down here-- nothing that matters.

Oh, there’s preservatives and bleach, reams of paper, stardust beneath it all. There’s sweaty humans panicking; the air stinks with their fear. An avalanche of information flooding my nostrils, but two scents are missing, the only two of any importance. I keep flaring my nostrils, desperate for a whiff of either… I can’t find that metallic tang, sparking with current, bloody even when none has been spilled-- a fucking Dalek. No trace of sweet clementines, tangy and sticky like rutting in the sun-- Rose. The thing has her, deep in the catacombs of van Statten’s fortress, and there’s not a trace of their scents here.

I have to get her back. I have to save her. Why hasn’t it killed her yet? It’s toying with me, taunting-- “the woman you love”. (No time for dwelling on all that.) It’s on its way here. That A-level nitwit was dumb enough to hold onto this gun, and now it’s in my hungry hands. I’ll get you back, Rose Tyler. I’ll get you, Dalek.

There they are… _tangerines/hate/copper/terror!_ That fucking monster has my Rose, and I am going to take her back. My cock swells, my vision blurs. I can’t even see past the rage in my veins. It had the audacity to take what is mine, when I have no one and nothing else left. It will pay for this. The world is only red, the barrel of this gun.

It shoots first-- misses. Tears up the ceiling.

Must strike now. Can’t risk hitting Rose, can barely see through the fire in my veins. “Get out of the way,” I order her. She turns to me, eyes locked onto mine-- I growl at the audacity. “Rose, get out of the way now!” I put all of my power into the words, and it ought to be enough to cow a Sontaran.

“No,” she says, and the hairs on my arms stand up. “No. I won’t let you do this.” She moves in front of the tin can, shielding it with her little body.

It’s all I can do not to kick her out of the way, for her own damn good, and blast the thing to bits. I grit my teeth and force an explanation out. “That thing killed hundreds of people!”

“It's not the one pointing the gun at me.” Those words plant ice in my spine. There’s a gun in my hands. Rassillon, it’s in my hands.

My prick softens, the gun wavers. “I've got to do this,” I whisper. “I've got to end it. The Daleks destroyed my home, my people. I've got nothing left.”

Her eyes are kind, but she doesn’t even acknowledge my words. “Look at it.”

The last of the damn rage finally fades, leaving me achy but clear-headed. I can see, I can hear, I can smell again. The tableau before me makes no sense. “… What's it doing?”

“It's the sunlight, that's all it wants.” Is it… Could it be?

It is, but-- “But it can't!”

“It couldn't kill Van Statten, it couldn't kill me. It's changing.” She fixes her brown eyes on me, her stare imperious. “What about you, Doctor? What the hell are you changing into?”

It’s all I can do not to fall at her feet, bare my neck and beg forgiveness.

_I couldn't._  
 _I wasn't._  
 _Oh, Rose.  
_ _They're all dead._

* * *

 She finds me fiddling with the time crystal a few nights later, having tucked that prick Adam away somewhere (his posturing is too much right now, but saying no to Rose would have been harder than swallowing my pride). She’s showered away the slick fear and the shiny metal, and now she just smells like ripe spring, good enough to eat.

“Doctor?”  
“Eh?”  
“You wanna fess up to why you’ve been hiding?”  
“No.”

She bites her tongue without thinking, and I think about biting it, and somehow she understands the darkness of my gaze. “I’m not going anywhere,” she tells me, again, and leans in to give me a peck on the cheek.

I’m stiff in my jeans, and my hands are shaking with devilish intent. “Rose Tyler, you’ll be the death of me.” She laughs like stardust,  but I insist, “You don’t know what you’re getting into. I’m not human. I’m nine hundred years old. I’ve killed people, I’ve done things... Rassillon, our anatomy isn’t compatible!” That line’s enough to give her a start, but I don’t pause because this is my last chance to fight her off and I have to take it, for her sake. “You don’t know all that I am. I’m not safe, Rose. I could hurt you.” I loom, let my hackles rise so she can see just how much alpha she’s provoking.

“No you couldn’t,” she whispers. She stares up at me, but then her gaze starts to drift down. She could be studying my anatomy, could be inspecting my jacket, but it looks like submitting and it pleases me too much. I ball my fists so that I don’t grab her, spin her, bend her over the console...

I want to be gentle; I’d love to pet her spine and dance my fingertips across her ribs. I wish I could soften for her, be the sort of man a human girl would want, but I would have to turn myself off for that and I don’t know what I’d be then… maybe almost someone she’d deserve.

I turn around for her sake, and she walks away for mine.


End file.
